Re: [Woods: Atticus & Eames]
"I'm about as deep as a puddle," Eames said with the equanimity of saying something that would be understood to be both true and also dry, and thus impossible to be exactly clear on whether he truly meant it. "I've never had a path," he added, idly, as he shook Atticus's hand with an equally firm grip. Eames had calluses on calluses, which seemed rather unexpected for a man who wore pink linen but appearances, after all, could be very deceiving, darling. He stowed the blade and the half-made chess piece beneath the chair's brim as he got to his feet.
"Is that not about putting order around chaos, like drawing lines around the coloring in?" Eames arched an eyebrow and he liked meeting people, for a man who spent much of his time by himself these days. "I'm not much for fate either. A surprise? Come in," he walked through the thick, plate glass doors into the kitchen that was all high-surface shine and very little suggestion anyone actually cooked in it. Eames did, if you're interested, but he was also fond of not leaving traces.
"I've only got German," he said, offhanded as he opened the fridge and plucked one out. "And I spent most of my childhood in some kind of trouble or another," he flashed a grin that was probably charming. "What do you read, Atticus? Glass?" He'd opened a cabinet. For the beer.